


no sweeter innocence (than our gentle sin)

by mxmushroom



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Ace subtype: sometimes yes, Anal Sex, Canon Asexual Character, Cis Jonathan Sims, Cis Martin Blackwood, Confusion, Dubious Consent, Dubious Prep, Established Relationship, Jon Bottoms, Jon Subs, M/M, Martin Doms, Martin Tops, Memory Loss, Morning Sex, Oral Sex, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Set in Episodes 180-181 | Upton Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Somnophilia, disorientation, handjobs, mention of safewords
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:02:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29928315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mxmushroom/pseuds/mxmushroom
Summary: “What,” Martin had said, pretending to be put-off by the idea, though it had gone straight to his cock and his mind had rapidly filled with surprisingly well-formed fantasies, “you’d like to fall asleep every night wondering if I’m going to fuck you?”“I mean, yes?”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 3
Kudos: 81





	no sweeter innocence (than our gentle sin)

**Author's Note:**

> dubious consent tag because they don't agree on this particular *instance* of somno, but previous consensual somno is mentioned, as are safewords, and an established dom/sub dynamic  
> upton house thank you for giving me a fun porn setting  
> martin is a dom, you can't convince me otherwise  
> jon is relatively Out Of It here, so tread carefully for memory loss, confusion, generally being out of sorts, possibly not fully himself... canon-typical upton house jon  
> title from hozier because... yeah  
> no beta, we die like salesa

At Upton House, Jon sleeps most of the day. At first it worries Martin, looking into the eyes that don’t see anything and wondering what he could be dreaming about, caressing the cheeks growing rough with dark stubble, holding the smaller body close. When he’s awake, he isn’t himself. He speaks slowly, confused. He loses his train of thought. He forgets things. 

It brings back horrible memories. Martin remembers reminding his mother who he was, only to see her smile curl into a disdaining frown, her forehead furrowing and insults spilling from her lips. Useless. Fat. Foolish, stupid, irresponsible boy,  _ just like your father, Martin, really _ . 

Martin will never tell Jon this. Never tell him that when Jon asks what day it is, Martin remembers showing his mother how the calendar worked, fielding shouts and curses when she forgot that yes, Martin  _ did  _ work Monday to Friday, and  _ yes,  _ today is Tuesday, mother, look. He will certainly never tell Jon that bringing him meals and tea and water on days when he’s too dizzy to stand keeps Martin awake late into the night, and summons his mother into his nightmares. He’d thought he was free of her. Well, more fool him, then. 

Sometimes, Jon’s coherent. He makes his usual sarcastic jokes when he ventures downstairs to eat with Salesa and Martin. He smokes, making self-deprecating comments about his failed attempts to quit, but he’s not sure he can die of such quotidian things as lung cancer anymore, and doesn’t the harbinger of the dead world deserve a bit of nicotine? On those days, things feel almost normal. Almost right. But the moments of Jon, as he ought to be, are fleeting, and he always descends back into that heavy, lifeless sleep. 

Martin finds himself spending most of his time with Salesa, reading from his extensive library, sipping tea that he tries to forget Annabelle probably prepared, flirting hesitantly, talking about anything  _ but  _ the apocalypse. 

When he’s awake, Jon says it doesn’t bother him. He pats Martin’s arm affectionately and smiles absentmindedly and pads back off down the mansion’s long, dim hallways to be alone. 

He spends so much time alone. 

Salesa feeds Martin plates of pastries, tea imported from God-knows-where, elaborate roasts. He asks Martin about the Archivist, about his Sight, his Knowing. Sometimes Martin thinks he shouldn’t answer, but he’s never really gotten the chance to talk about his boyfriend to anyone, so he relents. 

“He’s really a lot of fun, usually,” he says apologetically one evening, his head heavy with pear cider and the room thick with Salesa’s pipe-smoke. 

Salesa raises an eyebrow. “I can tell.” 

Martin laughs. “No, really. It’s just… this place, I think.”

“The Eye has no power here.” Salesa’s nod feels almost sinister, and Martin drains his glass, shifts to sit defensively in the high-backed wooden chair at the long dining table. 

“We had a very long journey.”

“Oh, trust me, Martin Blackwood, I know.” Salesa grins. “It’s a shame you can’t relax properly.” 

Martin scoffs. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean!”

“Forgive me,” Salesa begins, refilling Martin’s glass. “But I can tell when a man hasn’t properly fucked someone in a long time.” 

Martin splutters. He fancies himself inscrutable. “If you mean I have my priorities in line, well, then,  _ yes _ , you could say…” he trails off as he sees Salesa starting to laugh. 

“I mean that there’s no time like the present.” 

Martin frowns. “Are you… because I’m not interested.” 

“Apologies, love. Two tops do not a hook-up make.” 

Martin genuinely laughs at that, and Salesa continues: “If you’re willing to share him, well… that’s another story entirely.”

They settled into a not-entirely-comfortable silence, then, Martin letting the smoke-heavy air go to his head. At some point he makes his apologies and stumbles off to bed, where he finds Jon, predictably, already deep in some unknown dream.

Martin wakes before Jon, most mornings. There are still days here, and the sun streams in through even the thick, brocade-adorned curtains to rouse Martin at around ten-thirty. He smells something cooking, sweet and buttery. He rolls over. It’s hot under the thick quilts piled up on the unnecessarily ornate four-poster bed in Salesa’s guest bedroom. His upper lip and the back of his neck are sticky with sweat and he struggles out of his t-shirt before rolling over.

It still shocks him how relaxed he sees Jon’s body here. He can’t remember the last time he looked like this, even before the change, when he still, purportedly, slept. In Scotland, he’d twitch and mutter in his sleep, waking Martin throughout the night, whispering what sounded like snippets of statements into the darkened bedroom. Martin would stroke his hair to soothe him, kiss his forehead and eyelids and down his spine until he stilled, at least for a moment. 

Now, Jon’s relaxed. His limbs are heavy; he doesn’t move. His breathing is slow and even. Martin nuzzles closer so their bodies press together, and sighs. 

“I love you,” he whispers. Jon shifts lazily, unhearing. 

He sleeps naked most nights; it must be July or August in non-end-of-the-world-time, and the old house gets  _ hot _ , humid, airless. When he moves, his skin shifts, damp against Martin’s own, and Martin feels desire prickle in the back of his throat and travel down into his gut. 

He lets a hand trail from where it was curled around Jon’s waist to feel the curve of his arse, his thigh. The pad of his finger lingers in the round divot of a worm scar, his palm stroking the fine hair that trails down his stomach. Jon doesn’t move. Martin’s cock twitches. 

_ It’s not the time _ , he thinks to himself.  _ He’s not well.  _

Something in the back of his mind is unwilling to concede the point. Memories of Daisy’s cottage drift back to him: mornings he woke Jon with gentle, exploratory touches and was met with wet, eager kisses and rutting hips. Long, drawn-out conversations about how Jon didn’t particularly mind sex he wasn’t conscious for. An especially elaborate scene involving Nyquil and Martin dressed in black. He’d felt odd about that one, but Jon assured him over and over that he didn’t mind, and when he woke the next day, sore and bruised and still damp in places Martin’s tongue had traced over, he’d smiled, nearly  _ purred  _ asking Martin if he’d done well. 

_ That was different _ , he reminds himself. 

It’s Jon’s voice, not his own, that responds to his hesitancy now. “You really don’t need to warn me,” he’d said, nonchalantly, over breakfast. “I think it’s rather more exciting if you don’t really.” 

“What,” Martin had said, pretending to be put-off by the idea, though it had gone straight to his cock and his mind had rapidly filled with surprisingly well-formed fantasies, “you’d like to fall asleep every night wondering if I’m going to fuck you?” 

“I mean, yes?” Jon had stood then, taken their plates to the sink. It always shocked Martin, still does, how frank the other man can be when he actually  _ wants  _ to communicate something. 

_ You haven’t… not since… the Change.  _

It’s this last thought that gives him the most pause, but he’s already made up his mind. He kisses Jon’s neck, moving his long, unkempt hair to the side for access to the warm, smooth skin. Jon tastes so much of himself, so human, and Martin can’t resist nipping at him; gently. If he can wake Jon, here, now, he doesn’t want to. Not yet. 

It surprises him how quickly desire builds once he knows what he’s about to do. His mind goes hazy with it, his briefs growing tight as he lets two fingers roll over Jon’s nipple until it stiffens and he moves his hips gently against Jon’s unfeeling body. The friction is delicious, irresistible, he has to remind himself to go slowly, to enjoy this, to enjoy Jon  _ like this _ . When he moves away to slide his briefs off, the air feels cold and the missing touch makes him ache. 

_ You can do whatever you want to him.  _ The idea is intoxicating. Martin’s mind fills with thoughts he’d never admit to, not out loud, and he thanks god, not for the first time, that Jon won’t read his mind. He thinks of moving his mouth down, sucking Jon’s soft cock till it changes, hardens against his tongue, fills his mouth, and Jon wakes moaning, wet and fucking up into Martin, confused and dazed with pleasure and lingering sleep. 

No. He doesn’t  _ want  _ to see Jon come right now. These nights have never been about him, have they? 

He could turn him over. Jon’s small enough that Martin can move him easily, and he does, often, holding Jon up in the shower, pinning him down against the bed or propping him against Daisy’s old desk (she must have  _ known _ , he’d thought the first time they violated her furniture that way, and she wouldn’t have offered if it bothered her). He could rest Jon on his stomach, legs spread, arse open and accessible for Martin to use as he pleases. 

The thought is pleasant. For now, though, he’s happy like this. His cock, hard and starting to leak with desire and an aching need to fill something, rests against Jon’s crack. If Martin were a crueler top, he could press in like this, leave the other man wondering what  _ hurts _ so much the next day. But he won’t. 

He strokes at Jon’s inner thighs, easing them open. His cock is soft, adorable, smallish. The skin is delicious, tender under Martin’s rough fingers. His thumb eases from the root to the head, pulling the foreskin back. It’s thrilling to feel Jon’s body respond unprompted, his cock swelling persistently, slowly, under Martin’s determined touches. It grows, eased to attention, to fill Martin’s large hand. He can’t stop himself from letting out a little groan, muffling it by pressing his mouth into Jon’s shoulder. 

“God. Love, you’re gorgeous. You’re so good.” He knows Jon can’t hear him. He doesn’t care. He feels drunk with it all, feeling Jon’s head grow wet under his hand, rutting forehead in the rhythm of his stroking, grinding hard and determined against Jon’s limp body. He swallows. He wants this. He needs this. He’s realizing, as he lets himself go, how long it’s been since he let himself feel this good. 

He keeps a hand fisted loosely around Jon’s cock as he wets a finger in his mouth and shifts backward so he can access Jon’s hole. He readies it. Hungrily, he presses a finger against it, and it slides it almost too readily. It’s satisfying, the warm, tight feeling of Jon around him, even like this eager and wanting and ready to take him. Martin lets his finger rest there, for a moment. He imagines the sounds Jon would make, if he could. The things he would say. How he would beg. 

Jon shifts, backward, as if asking more. He keens, softly, from the back of his throat. 

“What’re you dreaming of, darling?” Martin whispers. “Dreaming of me?” 

He eases another finger in, slow, tantalizing. His eyes flutter shut, and his senses fill with just Jon: his scent, his feel, his taste against Martin’s lips, searching, hungry for places to suck and nip at, easing bruises out from the dark skin. He pulls away, leaving Jon filled, but taking his hand off Jon’s cock, fully hard now, to turn him over so his back is up, his stomach pressed against the mussed sheets, his head tilted to one side and his hair in a tangle down his back. 

God, he’s pretty. There’s a little wet spot on the cushion where drool trails lightly from the corner of his mouth. He smells of cigarettes and sweat and the argan oil he uses in his hair and paper, somehow, still. Martin trails a hand lightly down the curve of his thin back; his shoulderblades jut out under his skin, the small of his back is moist with sweat, he’s scarred and rough and beautiful. Martin relishes how much bigger he is than Jon. How, even if he did wake up, he’d be completely under Martin’s control like this. Martin moves to straddle Jon’s legs, bending down to kiss down his back and over the slight curve of his ass. He tongues at Jon’s opening, delirious with the taste of it, and the gentle motion of Jon’s hips unconsciously moving up against him pushes Martin over the edge. He’s tired, now, of teasing himself. 

Using one hand to pin Jon in place more firmly against the mattress, he guides his cock to Jon’s entrance. He braces himself, knowing how desperate with want he is already, and eases himself inside. 

It’s somehow even easier than usual. Jon’s sleeping form opens up willingly for him, and he’s tight but not resistant as Martin slowly buries himself to his base in the warmth of Jon’s ass. For a long, tantalizing moment, he doesn’t move. He feels Jon encompassing him, breathing heavily, leaning against the man underneath him with just enough weight resting on his forearm to avoid crushing him entirely.

There’s an unexpected movement, suddenly, that startles him out of his reverie. Jon makes a noise, coherently, almost, and Martin holds himself as still as he can. 

“Mmm, what’s… Martin?” Jon’s voice is heavy, thick with sleep and disorientation. He tries to move under Martin and finds he can’t, and his eyes flutter open, confused. 

“Shh, shh.” He knows how to soothe Jon, always has. When he was punishing himself relentlessly in what used to be Daisy’s cabin, Martin could talk him down. When he refused to leave the Archives even far past midnight in those early days, back when he hated Martin, Martin still knew how to talk him out of working for just one more hour. Now, he uses the same quiet, calm voice, pitched low, in his chest. “Quiet, love.”

“Martin.” There’s a hint of anxiety in his voice still, though Jon knows he’s safe here, with Martin’s touch on him. 

“It’s okay,” Martin whispers. “Go back to sleep, love.” 

“What’re… you doing?”

Martin pauses momentarily, unsure what to say. Does Jon want him to stop? He hasn’t said anything, hasn’t even struggled. Martin remembers their regular safeword; even in this state, surely, Jon must know he can make Martin stop any time. 

“I’m just…” he pauses, thinking. “Taking care of you, Jon.” 

“Time’s it?” The question’s half-formed, spilling from Jon’s lips, which barely move to form the words. 

“Mmm.” This moan is less that of interrupted sleep, as Jon ruts his ass back against Martin, his cock grinding against the sheets with a soft sound, Martin’s cock twitching delightfully at the friction of Jon’s body against his. 

“Don’t worry,” he whispers. “Sleep. I’ve got you.” 

Jon yawns. “Love you,” he murmurs. 

“I love you too.” 

It’s a long time before his breathing slows to complete regularity once again. Martin doesn’t move, though he’s aching to. He lets Jon warm his cock, hard and wanting inside him, fighting the urge to thrust forward and use Jon’s body, limp and accepting and ready to take him. But fucking Jon awake would miss the point. He reminds himself of that, scolds himself:  _ You can wait. He needs rest. Doesn’t he?  _

So wait he does. He toys listlessly with Jon’s hair, trying to distract himself from the pulsing between his legs and the hot, welcoming feeling of Jon urging Martin to  _ fuck him, now, deeper, yes.  _ He kisses Jon’s neck, the back of his throat, his shoulders, revelling in how pretty he is here, like this, cast in the yellowish light of the sun through the curtains, the shock of his dark hair against the white cotton sheets, the parting of his swollen lips. 

When Jon’s been still, heavy with exhaustion, for what feels like a long time, Martin moves to prop himself up so he can move properly, and thrusts his hips slowly, deliberately, forward. 

It’s enough to summon a choked sound of desire and pleasure from the back of Martin’s throat. Feeling Jon against his cock, sensitive and teased and, Martin’s sure, leaking into Jon already, is almost too much. But he’s determined now. He needs this.  _ Jon needs this _ , he reasons. He deserves this. To be cherished like this, treated like the gorgeous, treasured plaything that he is. 

That train of thought dissolves as Martin finds a rhythm, fucking into Jon hesitantly at first, then harder when he senses that this won’t wake him, not now. His heart is violent against his ribcage, his breathing hard and haggard; he closes his eyes tightly, feeling the edge of orgasm rushing up rapidly to meet him, and he  _ wants  _ to fill Jon up with him, is desperate to, but no, not yet. His hips stutter, then slow, and he rolls them against Jon to grind his pelvis up against the soft skin of the other man’s ass, slowing, letting himself pull back from his peak. 

“Fuck,” he whispers, knowing how Jon likes praise, even if he can’t hear it. “Jon, you’re so lovely. So good.” It’s rougher than he’s used to, without their regular lube, but it’s  _ good _ , better, even. He thrusts in again, hard, and Jon’s body moves with the force of it, shaking slightly against the bed. 

Martin loses control at that sight. He fucks Jon relentlessly now, not worried about him waking, not worried about the steady, telltale creaking of the bedframe, or the loud moans escaping from him each time he feels Jon’s body open up a little more to take him deeper, deeper. He feels his orgasm coming a long time before it finally hits him, the pressure building at the base of his cock, the heat between his legs, the dizzy feeling overtaking him as he spills into Jon all at once, crying out his name, his vision going white and his whole body tensing with pleasure. 

When he pulls out, he sees his come spilling out of Jon, down between his legs, and smiles, going red.  _ You’re mine _ , he thinks. He bends to clean Jon with his mouth, their mingled tastes heaven on his tongue. “You’ve done so well,” he murmurs, his regular praise whenever Jon’s been especially submissive for him, “good boy.” Funnily enough, it’s these words that rouse Jon again, and when Martin pulls his face back and wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, Jon rolls over, lazily, blinking and smiling up at Martin blearily. 

Martin bends to kiss him, their mouths hot and moist where they meet, partly-opened. 

“Morning. Sleepyhead.” 

“I’m sorry,” Jon mutters. “I’m just… tired. It’s all so…” 

“I know. I know.” Martin kisses Jon again, so he knows he doesn’t have to talk. “How d’you feel?” 

Jon moves hesitantly, as though experimenting with his own body, and Martin can see in his eyes the moment when he feels the wetness around his arse and between his legs, and the residual ache where Martin opened him. 

“Good,” he whispers. “It hurts, a bit.” 

Martin grimaces. “I’m sorry, I… I just didn’t have anything with me, and--” 

Jon stops him with a quiet laugh. “No, it’s all right, it’s… good.” 

“It’s good?” 

“It’s okay. C’mon. Stay a bit?” Jon pulls Martin down beside him and they curl into one another familiarly, the way they have so many times. Martin pulls Jon to him, nuzzles in the gap between his neck and shoulder, lets their legs entangle, their bare bodies seeming to lose their edges as they become one person, one thing, here, together. 

After a long time, Jon speaks again. “Was it good?”

“Yeah.” Martin’s voice is soft, throaty. 

“Was… I good?” 

“You always are.” 

Jon smiles, and tries to move closer to Martin, though it’s scarcely possible. “Really?” 

“You’re fishing for compliments, Jon,” Martin teases.

“And?” 

“Yes,  _ really _ .”  _ Yes, you’re the best, you’re so good, you were perfect, you were lovely, you’re always good and perfect and lovely and obedient and waiting, yes.  _ “I’m starving.” 

“Bring me something?” 

“Not getting up today.” It’s not so much a question as a resigned, defeated acknowledgement. Martin isn’t used to Jon weak, Jon dependent, Jon  _ sick _ ; as enticing as it is, it also sparks a tight knot of worry in his stomach.

Jon frowns. “No. I don’t think so. I’m sorry. I just… ” 

Martin says nothing. He knows they can’t keep doing this. Jon feels wan, almost translucent, like he’s fading, going somewhere Martin can’t follow him. They’ll have to leave. And soon. 

For now, though, he pushes the thought from his mind. “Right, then. I can stay a little longer.” 

And he does.


End file.
